A Toast

Not your martyrs anointed of heaven -
        The ages are red where they trod -
But the Hunted - the world's bitter leaven -
        Who smote at your imbecile God -

A being to pander and fawn to,
        To propitiate, flatter and dread
As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,
        A Dealer who traffics the dead;

A Trader with greed never sated,
        Who barters the souls in his snares,
That were trapped in the lusts he created,
        For incense and masses and prayers -

They are crushed in the coils of your halters;
        'Twere well - by the creeds ye have nursed -
That ye send up a cry from your altars,
        A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;

A passionate prayer from reprieval
        For the Brotherhood not understood -
For the Heroes who died for the evil,
        Believing the evil was good.

To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,
        Who dreamed of a world over-thrown...
They who died for the millions of toilers -
        Few - fronting the nations alone!

- To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,
        Whether hated or hating they fell -
I pledge the devoted, red-handed,
        Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!